“When the boli first come here, it is nothing but a piece of wood wrapped in cloth. And look at it now, eh? Ten and nine years of offering to the gods. Clay, sand, dirt, shit, and some things no decent tongue should talk about,” he say and laugh.
This is the first time he say anything to her, and Sogolon know it is best to say nothing. Not even Yes, Master.
“I . . . I . . .”
“You are nothing but a thief?”
“No, Master.”
“Then you looking to sap the boli for yourself?”
“No, Master.”
“You don’t even know what it is, and why would you? What is a power object to one with no power?”
The master start to stroke it. “Try you head to understand,” he say. “The nyama of the world, that run in and out of your nose when you breathe, that bring rainfall and drought, that bring life and take it, all of it come together in the boli. The gods take a look of everything and squeeze it down to this like a potter squeeze down clay. It keep safe the spirit, you understand? It hold the nyama for the community.”
“This not the community. This your house,” Sogolon say. The moonlight land on his frown.
“Not everything deserve to be had by everybody,” he say. “Come over here.”
Sogolon is shifting a little to the door, but now she stop.
“I don’t repeat commands in my own house, you understand?”
Sogolon walk toward him but stop when her foot touch a rug. Halfway from his finger beckoning her to come closer.
“How come I supposed to have had you, if I can’t remember you?”
Sogolon don’t answer.
“You passing so many days as my wife’s little pet that you forget that whoring is what you do. How lucky you must be, to leave Miss Azora right before somebody break into her house and kill her. Break her neck like a twig.”
Sogolon gasp. She didn’t know what did become of Miss Azora that night, and didn’t have nobody to ask. The mistress clearly don’t care what her monster do.
“You the one who want to come into the presence of the boli. Then come into the presence.”
Sogolon is back where she is before he come in. The moon shift since and now it cover the figure in silver. The master tell her to touch the back. Her fingers come back from it wet.
“Goat blood, all along the back. Some chicken blood too. You understand? You can’t add nothing to it that is not a sacrifice. For it to give to you, you have to give to it, and for you to give to it, you have to take from yourself. What you going add to it?” he ask.
Sogolon stare at him.
“You think your stare is an answer?” he say.
She turn back to the boli. She say to him that she could go to the cookroom and come back with some kola nuts to chew and spit on it, since she hear that some gods take that as offering.
“My money buy that kola nut. How is that your sacrifice?” he say. Sogolon step back from the boli, but he step back with her.
“All your mistress care about is getting summoned back to court, you understand? All she living for is that one day the royal house of Akum show her favor. Never mind that is her poison mouth why we are banished.”
Sogolon grab the canvas to cover the boli.
“Never mind that. Get out.”
Sogolon turn to leave as quick as she can walk.
“One more thing,” he say. “Washing water right outside by the grain keep. Don’t come in here smelling like the donga again.”
Don’t act like you shook. You shook, but don’t act like it, she tell herself over again.
“Look at me and my mood that I should say this with some goodness. From the first time you go out I follow you. Or was that the second time, or third, or even tenth? First thing my mind whisper to me is look at this whore going out with her unsatisfied self. But lo, look at where I find you. Now I don’t even have to follow, when you come in here smelling of men.”
Sogolon just standing there. She don’t turn around.
“You like see man set ’pon each other like wild dogs? Is that what excite you, girl? How you take to a man wearing nothing but himself?”
Sogolon don’t turn around.
“I tell you to get out.”
She don’t get five step when a blow to the back of her head knock her down. The master drop the carving, then drop on her before her head stop spinning. He grab her by the shoulder and roll her over on her back. Sogolon head still spinning and won’t come to a stop. The master saying something but it come out a snarl. Her head come back just as he grab her top to rip it off. But the top won’t tear, he yank it again and again, and yank her again and again. She try to push him off, but he slap her. She gasp, she about to scream, but he say, Scream and you out on the street before the sun even rise, you understand? She squeezing her legs together and he, with one hand grabbing her neck, try with the other hand and his legs to spread her. She whimpering and struggling and free her hand to scratch him on the neck. He snarl again and punch her in the face. Stunned too long, she is stunned too long. She try to push him off, try to roll over, but he already pull up his nightshirt, ready to slap himself on her skin. Stop with your fight, you not bred to win, he say and sink his finger. She close her eyes and think of the loudest, wildest, noisiest thing. A storm, with clouds gray and churning like cow milk in coffee. Rain breaking loose and flooding the pasture. And wind, whistling, then howling, then screaming, then blowing away the trees, the house, the land, the blue sky, the dirt, and the Tower of the Black Sparrowhawk, breaking the statue from the foundation and making the stone bird fly. A cough then another coax her eyes open. Wind, a whispering demon, whip up papers on a stool, float the canvas like a sail before it fall gentle, and slip past the boli as it escape through the window.
Right across from her is the master, head near the ceiling, his back pressing against the wall, his legs loose as if floating in water, his arms shaking, his hands trying to hold air. And bursting through his chest, a wall beam, sharp like an arrowhead.
THREE